


Meat

by Fancy Lads Snacks (Filthy_Bunny)



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4268109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filthy_Bunny/pseuds/Fancy%20Lads%20Snacks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Six loses his shit in Gomorrah, Arcade tries to piece together why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this kinkmeme prompt: http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5646.html?thread=12078094#t12078094

Arcade was afraid.

The man in front of him had never scared him before. He’d been afraid _for_ him, of course, every single day since they’d met. Six had a way of getting in over his head and was the worst shit-magnet Arcade had ever encountered. As he often told himself and others, if it weren’t for the fact that the courier was actually making a difference in the Mojave, Arcade would have walked away long ago if only for the sake of his blood pressure. Most of the time he even believed it. Sometimes, though, he admitted (if only to himself) that even if Six were to fail, it wouldn’t be so easy to leave his side. Arcade didn’t like to think too much about why that was.

But they were friends, brothers in arms, and however insignificant Arcade’s role may be, they were doing good things.

Until now. This didn’t feel like a good thing at all.

“What did you do?” he heard himself say. It seemed like a very stupid question. The sort of thing only someone in shock would say.

“You’re the doctor, work it out.”

Six sat on a couch with his back to the body, smoking a cigarette. He rarely smoked. His eyes were fixed on a spot on the carpet near Arcade’s feet and he looked tired.

Arcade found himself stepping around Six and heading over to the bed. He stumbled on something on the way; looking down, he saw it was a brown loafer. The foot was still inside.

Clanden’s head was propped up on a pillow, the face utterly devoid of expression. He could have been tortured to death or bored to death. The snarled red mess of his body told a rather more detailed story. Other than the hacked-off foot, the limbs were intact; Arcade considered with a chill that Six hadn’t wanted him to bleed out too fast. Clanden’s torso was obscured under a slippery tangle of guts, shiny loops spilling over his sweater vest and out onto the mattress and floor. A Med-X syringe still protruded from one elbow under a yanked-up sleeve. Clanden’s face was white; everything else was red.

It was horrific. It was revolting. It was no more horrific or revolting than a thousand other scenes Arcade had come across in his time with the Followers or his travels to the darker corners of the desert with Six. He had a strong stomach. But it wasn’t the gore, or even the stench, making his head swim with nausea and panic. It was the man in the chair, calmly smoking his fucking cigarette with blood-stained hands.

“Holy shit, Six.”

“What.”

Arcade turned away from Clanden’s remains and wiped a hand over his face.

He’d only been gone from Six’s side for two, maybe three hours. They’d gotten Joana and the other girls out of Gomorrah soon after midnight and escorted them to Carlitos in Freeside. It had been a sweet relief to get out of the casino; they’d been in there for hours that felt like days, and the whole place made Arcade’s skin crawl. It was like being in the bowels of some huge carnivorous beast, a claustrophobic, helpless churn as they were slowly digested along with all the other meat. Of course, Six being Six felt the need to dig through every last bit of dirt while they were there, going from room to room finding increasingly awful evidence of the Omertas’ corruption.

Arcade had seen the look in Six’s eyes when Joana had told them about Cachino. He’d seen that look before, when they’d met Pretty Sarah in Westside and Corporal Betsy at McCarran. Nothing sickened Six like an abuser of women. It was one of the things Arcade most admired about him. But the longer they’d spent in Gomorrah, the further Six had retreated into himself. When they’d found the holotapes in Clanden’s safe, Six had gone completely still, his face blank. The tape had kept playing on and on until Arcade couldn’t stand it any more and had to reach for the Pip-Boy to shut it off.

Then they had found the dead prostitute.

Arcade had known then that something was seriously wrong with Six. The blankness had returned, coming down like a steel shutter. Arcade had kept on talking to him, trying to pull him away, reminding him that it was almost time and Joana would be waiting. Eventually the words had gotten through and Six had followed him silently from the room.

After seeing Joana to safety, Arcade had hoped to get Six back to the Lucky 38 for some rest; surround him with the familiar faces of his friends and put some distance between him and the darkness he’d witnessed at Gomorrah. But when he’d suggested it, Six had just shaken his head and pointed in the vague direction of the Atomic Wrangler.

“Gonna get a drink,” he’d said. “Be on my own for a while.”

And so Arcade had let him go, naively hoping that a few drinks and a night in his room at the bar would actually help, and Six would be back to his old self the next morning.

It was only by pure chance that Cass had spent the whole evening playing cards at the Wrangler with Beatrix, and when she’d come back to the ‘38 an hour or so after Arcade, swore she hadn’t seen Six all night.

After a quick and fruitless check of Six’s other local haunts, Arcade had turned back towards the Strip and re-entered Gomorrah with a heavy heart. He’d never set foot in the casino his entire life—everyone knew the Omertas were bad news, and Arcade had no appetite for their particular brand of temptation—but now he was back for the second time in one night. He’d headed straight for Clanden’s suite and found Six up in the bedroom. Or at least, someone who looked like Six. The man in front of him with the dead-eyed stare and arms red up to the elbows felt like a total stranger.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” Arcade managed at last.

“No point,” Six replied. “I’m not done yet.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is a bad place, Arcade.” Six looked his way for the first time since he’d entered the room. “I can’t let them get away with it.” He sounded weary and sad. It was good to hear that faint familiar trace of his friend, but his words alarmed Arcade.

“Who?” he demanded. “Big Sal? Nero?”

“All of them. Every last one.”

“All of them,” Arcade murmured in disbelief. “Six, you plan on taking out _the entire Omerta clan?_ With what, a machete?”

“I’m packing more than a machete. That was a little something special just for him,” Six said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at the bed.

“You can’t.”

“I have to.”

“And what about all the other things you have to do?”

“They can wait.”

“They can’t wait until you’re fucking dead,” Arcade snapped. “This is _suicide_.”

“I’m not asking you to be a part of it.”

“I’d noticed.”

Six stubbed out his cigarette on the red velour of the couch and got to his feet slowly and awkwardly as though his body was aching. “Go home, Arcade.”

Arcade’s pounding heart accelerated a little more. “Wait,” he said, moving to block Six’s path. “Think about this. If you step out into the hallway looking like that, you’re gonna have to fight your way past every guard in this place. Just… please. Get washed up, change your clothes, if you want to get anywhere near the bosses.”

Six eyed him suspiciously.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Arcade added. “You know you’re outgunned. You need tactics on your side.”

“Fine,” Six replied.

He shouldered past Arcade and went for the door. Arcade followed a few steps behind, dreading what would happen if Six decided to ignore his advice. Chances were he’d be dead before he got to the elevator. Which meant Arcade would be, too. He had to bite back a sigh of relief when Six reached the bottom of the stairs and headed for the bathroom.

He hovered by the door and watched as Six ran the water and started to scrub his hands.

“Why is it so important for you to do this now?” he asked.

“Because it is.”

Arcade tried not to twitch, fought his instinct to run into the room and punch Six in the mouth, shake him and yell _What’s gotten into you,_ because he knew that his panic would only exacerbate a situation that was already beyond fucked up.

“Gomorrah isn’t going anywhere.” He had never been so grateful for his ability to sound calmer than he felt. “Why don’t we head back tomorrow with the others? Strength in numbers.”

“Arcade,” Six replied. He turned around, and the look on his face was so empty and cold that Arcade had to force himself to stare back. “Get out of here, now. I’m not gonna tell you again.”

 _So this is the goodbye he’s offering,_ Arcade thought. _After everything I’ve been through with the son of a bitch._

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll find you a clean shirt first.”

He went back upstairs and rummaged through the dressers and drawers with shaking hands, careful never to glance at the bed. When he got back to the bathroom Six had stripped off his bloodied shirt, soaked it in the basin and was using it to wipe sticky blood from his arms. Arcade watched him from the doorway until he had finished. Watched the broad scar across Six’s right shoulder stretch and distort as he reached for a towel. The scar from a wound that Arcade himself had stitched closed by lamplight in the kitchen at the Lucky 38. He swallowed hard and stepped forward.

“Here,” he said. Six half-turned, and Arcade held out the plaid button-down. “Not really your usual style, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

Six just nodded distractedly and reached for the shirt. Arcade waited until he had one arm into a sleeve before digging him in the back ribs with the cattle prod. Six jerked, froze, and went down like a ton of bricks on the filthy carpet.

“You can thank me later,” Arcade muttered.


	2. Chapter 2

Arcade wasn’t in the room when Six woke up. He was too busy with his head down the toilet, ejecting everything he had consumed in the last day. Judging by the raised voices and sounds of furniture being knocked over in the master bedroom next door, he’d gotten the sweet end of the deal. He sagged against the toilet bowl and waited for the nausea to pass. He felt like a wrung-out cloth.

After a few minutes he got up, put his glasses back on and went into the kitchen. He got some water from the fridge and took a long drink to soothe the burn in his throat. He heard a door open in the hall followed by the muttering of Spanish expletives. Arcade swilled more water round his mouth and spat it into the sink.

“I guess his mood hasn’t improved, huh?”

Raul came into the room dragging a bulging duffle bag behind him. He dropped it near the door and rubbed one forearm with his hand. It wasn’t always easy to make out expressions on the ghoul’s ravaged face, but there was no mistaking the fact he was pissed.

“At least his manners should improve now Veronica’s clocked him with her Power Fist.”

Arcade winced. “I’m wondering if I should just pack my bags now.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Raul said. “If anyone’s gonna talk sense into him, it’s you.”

“I hope you’re kidding. If I step in there he’s more likely to rearrange my face than listen to a word I say.”

“You just talked him out of a killing spree.”

“I _electrocuted_ him.”

Raul shrugged. “Yeah, well, you know how to stay calm,” he said. “I’m a pretty laid-back guy, but he almost pulled a chunk right off my arm. That’s not fucking cool. If I go back in there it’s gonna get nasty.”

Arcade rinsed out his mouth and spat again. “What’s he doing right now?”

“Glaring.” Raul gestured to the bag. “We confiscated… basically everything. Only weapon he’s got left is a shitty attitude.”

Veronica joined them a minute later.

“Cass is on watch outside his door,” she said. “We figured it was safer to let him sulk in peace for a while.”

Raul and the two women had been the only ones home when Arcade had finally dragged Six out of the elevator and into the Presidential suite. They’d taken over and laid the courier out on his bed, assuming he’d been injured in a fight—which was true, in a sense. They’d all been shocked to learn what had happened at Gomorrah. It was a comfort to Arcade that he wasn’t alone in thinking Six had gone off the rails. It was less comforting that no one knew why.

“We need to find out what triggered him,” Arcade said, rubbing his eyes. “I mean, I know it must be something to do with the women. It was seeing that dead girl that pushed him over the edge. But it would help if we knew the whole story.”

Veronica nodded. “I never thought I’d say this, but I wish Boone were here,” she said. “I get the feeling Six helped him out with some kind of PTSD… thing. He could probably relate to him right now.”

Arcade took a seat at the long table. “Funny how he knows so many of our secrets, but we know none of his,” he said, thinking that it really wasn’t funny at all.

“You don’t think he’d tell us if he knew?”

“Maybe he remembers more than he’s letting on,” Raul said, echoing what had already crossed Arcade’s mind. Six’s amnesia had always been a convenient excuse not to pry.

“I nominate Arcade to go talk to him,” Veronica announced.

Arcade’s eyebrows shot up. “Not you too. What, I stick him with a cattle prod and suddenly I’m the expert?”

“You are a doctor,” she said, smiling hopefully.

“And you were in Gomorrah with him,” Raul added. “You know better than us what might have set him off.”

He eyed them both with contempt. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll talk to him. Later. But one of you can make him some food. And if he punches me in the face, you’re fixing my glasses, Raul.”

\--

And so it was that Arcade found himself heading for the master bedroom a little while later, carrying a plate of mac and cheese and a bottle of water. Cass got up from her chair by the door as he approached.

“You want some company in there?”

Arcade shook his head. “Probably best not to.”

“All right.” She opened the door for him. “You just holler if you get any grief from that surly motherfucker.” She raised her voice on the last two words so there was no chance Six would miss them.

Arcade went inside and elbowed the door closed behind him. Six was sitting on the edge of the bed, bare feet planted on the floor, leaning forward on his knees. He didn’t look up at his new visitor, just sat there curling and uncurling his fingers as though working out tension. The bedside cabinet to his right was askew and the oversized vase with its tacky fake palm leaves had been knocked on its side.

Arcade walked over to the foot of the bed and set down the food and drink on the weapons crate Six kept there. “I brought you something to eat,” he said. “Please don’t throw it on the floor.”

“I’m not a fucking animal.”

Arcade was tempted to argue, but held his tongue. He pulled out the chair from behind the desk and moved it closer to the bed, though with plenty of space for Six to get past him to the food. He sat down and waited.

After a minute or so Six shot him a sideways look.

“Happy now?”

“Ecstatic. I can’t decide which part of the evening I enjoyed the most.”

Another silence fell. Six went back to glowering at the floor.

“So, how long is this bullshit going to last, exactly? Because I have things to do.”

“You tell me, Six.”

“I’m the one being kept under fucking house arrest by my so-called friends.” He looked up at Arcade from under dark brows. Maybe it was just the familiar setting or wishful thinking, but Arcade thought there was something in his eyes that looked more like the old Six. Regardless, it was still barricaded behind a whole lot of rage.

“What the hell did you say to them?” Six went on.

“Only what happened.”

“What happened is that you freaked the fuck out. I should never’ve taken you with me if you don’t have the stomach.”

Arcade was too worn out to keep the anger from his voice. “Oh, spare me. I’m a doctor and there’s a war going on. You think I’ve never seen a man’s guts before?”

“So what’s the goddamn problem?” Six stood up suddenly. “Clanden was the scum of the earth. I did the Mojave a favour. I didn’t hear you complaining about the Legion camp we wiped out. Or the Fiends.”

“That was different.”

“Why? We’re still talking about slavers and rapists and murderers, only the Omertas are dressed nicer. How is it different?”

“Because _you’re_ different,” Arcade said. He paused a moment to keep his voice from shaking. “You didn’t pull out their intestines while they were still alive.”

Six stepped closer. “You think I went too far?” he asked, voice sour. He loomed over Arcade, meaning to intimidate.

“Yes.”

Six stared at him for a moment, then stalked over to the food. He stood with his back to Arcade while he ate. Then he dropped the plate back onto the crate with a clatter and grabbed the water.

“I still plan to go back there.”

Six sat back down on the bed and twisted the cap off the bottle. Arcade watched those hands and pictured them slick with blood, carving up flesh and tugging at entrails.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Are you going to try and stop me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

Arcade looked at the man sitting a few feet and approximately one million miles away. For once, he didn’t know what to say.

“How’s your back?” he offered at last.

Six laughed coldly, surprised at the question. “Fucking stings,” he said. “Cattle prod, huh? Serves me right for telling you to keep a holdout weapon.”

“Do you want me to take a look?”

From the look Six gave him, Arcade thought he was about to be forcefully removed from the room. Possibly the building. But then Six just shrugged.

“Do what you want,” he grunted.

Arcade got up and approached him warily. He sat down on the mattress and Six shifted to give him access to his back. He’d changed into one of his own undershirts, the plaid shirt borrowed from Clanden’s room long since balled up and thrown into a corner.

“May I?” Arcade asked, lifting the hem.

Six just grunted again and pulled the whole thing over his head. Arcade exhaled slowly and leaned closer to look at the red marks on Six’s back. He’d been a little heavy-handed with the prod—melee was hardly his speciality—but fortunately it hadn’t blistered the skin too badly. He eyed the second red mark where he’d had to zap Six again after he started to mumble and stir in the elevator at Gomorrah. He thought better of mentioning it.

“You could do with some dressings,” he said. He took the single bob of Six’s head as consent, and got up.

At the door he nodded to Cass, who looked mildly surprised that he was still standing, and went to the other bedroom for some supplies. When he returned he sat back down beside Six and took some dry gauze out of a packet. He was hesitant to touch Six, and that made his anger flare up again. He hated this sudden distance between them. He’d treated Six countless times before, far worse wounds than this—although this was the first injury he’d administered himself, so it came with an extra burden of guilt. He tried not to think about what the jolts of electricity could have done to Six’s heart. Six’s skin was warm under his fingers as he placed gauze over the twin burns.

“So. How did you get me out, anyway?” Curiosity peering through the hostility. “Hide me in a room service trolley?”

“Not quite,” Arcade said. “Although I really wish I’d thought of that.” He taped along another edge of the square on Six’s back. “I—well, first I had to wait until the corridor was empty before I could get you to the elevator. From there it was surprisingly easy. I guess no one looks twice at someone carrying their apparently drunken buddy out of a casino. I splashed some whisky on you so you smelled the part, too.”

Six eyed the discarded shirt on the floor. “So _that’s_ why I stank of fucking booze.”

“The worst part was when the guard in the lobby stopped us. He only wanted to give your guns back, but he almost gave me a heart attack.”

Six turned so Arcade could see his profile. “What did you do?”

“Told him I’d go back for them tomorrow. Said that if I didn’t move you fast, you were going to spray paint the carpet a fetching new colour. He actually held the door open for me after that.”

Six actually laughed then—just a little huff of a thing, barely more than a breath, but for the first time that night there was a hint of warmth in him. Arcade’s heart caught on the sound. _Please, come back_ , he wanted to say.

He’d finished what he was doing, so he moved away, but didn’t get up. Six stayed very still. Arcade wondered if that glimmer of warmth gave him the opportunity he needed to reach out across the void.

“You weren’t yourself in there,” he said quietly. “Six, something happened to you. When we saw that girl.”

When Six replied, his voice was a thick growl. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Did you remember something?”

Six started doing that unnerving thing again with his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists. “We’re done here.”

“If you did, we should talk about it,” Arcade went on, but he’d already realised this was the wrong time and he was only going to fuck things up worse if he didn’t stop talking. If only his mouth would get the damn message. “You won’t deal with it by going on a psychotic rampage against the Omertas.”

Six got up and turned to face him, face like thunder. Apparently he didn’t like the word ‘psychotic’. Arcade’s last hope fled. Why exactly did the others seem to think he’d be good at this?

“I said, we’re _done_ ,” Six spat. “And not just with this conversation. You can get the hell out of this casino. I don’t need people around me I can’t trust.”

“ _You_ can’t trust _me_? That’s a good one.” Fuck this. Arcade could feel their relationship disintegrating before his very eyes, and it infuriated him. He stood up, very glad now of the two extra inches he had on the courier. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead right now. Argue all you want, you know I’m right. At least one of us was looking at the bigger picture.”

“Get out,” Six said, eyes small and mean. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“Sure, whatever. At least the Followers show some appreciation for my efforts to save lives. God knows I didn’t leave them for _this_.”

Six stared him down. “No, we both know why you left.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You were looking for a hero, right?” Six actually smiled at that, actually fucking _smiled_ , an ugly, cruel thing. “Only let’s just say you weren’t interested in the size of my _sidearm_.”

Arcade recoiled. He could feel himself pale. That crossed every unspoken line between them.

“Fuck you.” He turned and stormed towards the door.

“Yeah, something along those lines,” Six muttered behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Arcade awoke in the dark suddenly, disoriented and unsure what had woken him. After a moment he registered the dip in the mattress behind him and turned over. Much to his surprise, Six was sitting on the edge of the bed. Arcade pushed himself up onto one elbow and waited.

“Can we talk?” Six said.

Their conversation from earlier flooded back to Arcade, and he felt like telling Six to go play with some explosives. But he didn’t have it in him.

“Sure,” he said instead.

Six nodded and got up. Arcade fumbled on the table for his glasses and slid them on. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep or what time it was—he never did in this windowless crypt—but he could tell from a glance at Six’s silhouetted form that it had been long enough for that awful animal tension to leave him.

Arcade swung his legs out of bed and reached for his pants. On the floor nearby was the bag he’d started to pack before total exhaustion had won out over anger. Any plans he’d had to storm off back to Freeside and the Followers had had to be postponed. He’d barely had enough energy in his reserves to tug off his boots and pants and crawl under the covers.

As he followed Six out of the room into the lit hallway, he saw Cass leaning by the door. She watched Six warily as he passed her, then turned her gaze on Arcade.

“You okay?” she asked.

He nodded, then pointed at Six’s back and mouthed, _Is he?_

Cass shrugged. “He seems spooked,” she said, hushed enough for only Arcade to hear. “But I don’t think he’s about to flip his shit again. He tried to give me a _hug_ ,” she added, incredulous and a little disturbed.

Six had stopped further down the hall. Rex was at his feet, tail swishing tentatively. The dog had been so startled by Six’s uncharacteristic behaviour earlier that he had retreated under the pool table, whining softly, and refused to come out even when Veronica dangled a chunk of gecko steak nearby. Six hunkered down and scratched behind the dog’s ears, talking to him gently.

Arcade had assumed they would head into the kitchen or games room, but Six looked up at him and gestured at the elevator doors.

“Thought we’d head downstairs,” he said. “That all right?”

“Sure,” Arcade heard himself say again, and hated himself a little. _Hey Arcade! Fancy a chat with a guy who performed a gruesome murder and then slapped you in the face with your own sexuality? Sure. How about you take an unaccompanied stroll around a deserted casino with him? Sure! What next? Wanna shoot up Psycho and play Russian roulette? Sure!_

They were both silent on the descent. Six seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts, his brow furrowed and eyes restless. As for Arcade, he simply felt too awkward after their earlier fracas. Plus he never liked to talk in front of Victor, their creepy, omnipresent escort.

After what felt like an age, the doors opened and Victor helpfully announced that they had reached the casino floor. Arcade followed Six past the rows of silent slot machines to the bar at the edge of the room. Arcade shivered; it was chilly in the huge, lifeless space. If he’d known they were coming down here he could have put on some socks and a warmer shirt.

Six went behind the bar. Arcade took a seat, shivering again as his bare feet made contact with the metal bars of the stool, and watched as Six took a bottle of whisky and a couple of shot glasses from a shelf. He set the bottle down in front of Arcade and wiped dust off the glasses with the hem of his shirt. Without a word, he walked back around the bar and settled on the stool next to Arcade before pouring two hefty shots. Arcade just looked at the one Six nudged in front of him. He wasn’t much of a drinker, and was even less inclined to indulge when his stomach had all but turned itself inside out earlier. Six, on the other hand, downed his and poured himself another, then reached for a pack of cigarettes and lit one with Benny’s lighter. Benny was dead, but he still carried the damned thing around in his pants pocket wherever he went.

In the end Arcade had to break the silence before it drove him crazy. “What’s this about, Six?”

It took Six a long time to reply. He seemed to be choosing his words with great care, mouth moving anxiously. Arcade hoped that whatever eventually fell from those lips would be in the form of an apology. Without one, he didn’t know if he could bring himself to stay. But when Six finally spoke, it was completely unexpected.

“That hooker we found,” Six said. It seemed to hurt him to talk. “What did she look like?”

The question blindsided Arcade. “You mean—the dead girl?”

Six nodded, staring into his drink.

“She—” Arcade cleared his throat. If he was going to talk about the very thing that had triggered Six earlier, he would have to do so with great care. “Well… she was white,” he said. “Short brown hair. She had—”

“Okay,” Six said, with a vague wave of his hand to show that he’d heard enough.

Arcade’s frown deepened. “Six, what’s going on?”

Six took a sip of whisky. “I don’t know,” he said. “Things are all mixed up.”

“Mixed up how?”

“Before. In Gomorrah. It’s all kinda blurry. There’s… pictures in my head that don’t match up. Things that don’t make sense.”

“Can you tell me about them?”

Six closed his eyes. “I just—I really don’t wanna go there.”

“I know. But it’s important.”

“Arcade, _please_ —”

Arcade felt out of his depth. Even after a good night’s sleep and without the horrors of Gomorrah darkening his own thoughts, he was hardly the best equipped to deal with a mental breakdown. He’d always had more confidence dealing with the body than the mind.

“I thought you wanted to talk,” he said as gently as he could.

“I just wanted to get things straight in my head.”

“Okay. Then let me help you do that.”

Six smoked the last of his cigarette and reached for another. At this rate he’d develop a habit overnight. His silence was making Arcade twitchy. _I got nerves that jingle, jangle, jingle…_

“Listen… I’ve told you things about myself that I haven’t told another living soul,” he told Six. “You may have noticed I don’t open up all that easily. But I told _you_ , because I trust you, and because I thought it might help your cause. If there’s something that is having this strong an effect on you, you can trust me with it.” The strain was showing in his voice. “And since it could put my life in danger again, I kind of think I’ve earned the right to hear it.”

Six let out a sigh. He propped his elbows on the bar and put his face in his hands, grinding the heels of his palms against his eyes.

“Of course you have,” he said sadly. “You’ve earned it a thousand times over. And there’s no one I trust more than you.”

“Even after the cattle prod?”

Six managed a half-smile. “Even after that.” He eyed the cigarette between his fingers with distaste, and dropped it into his unfinished drink. “Thing is, I don’t know if I’m remembering my past or just losing my goddamn mind. I’m not sure which would be worse.”

“Memories may not come back in the way you expect,” Arcade said. “It might not be events that come back; it could be images or feelings.”

“If these feelings are memories of who I used to be, I don’t fucking _want_ to remember,” Six replied, the last few words carried out on a shaky laugh. “I was just starting to kinda like who I am now.”

Arcade felt a pang in his chest as Six’s words knocked something into place within him. Since the day they met, Arcade had always had such a strong impression of who Six was that it hadn’t occurred to him that Six wasn’t equally sure of himself. He hadn’t only lost facts and figures; he was missing his entire _self_. Maybe that was why he was always so eager to learn about his friends; simply because they had something he didn’t. Arcade had probably underestimated how much of himself Six had had to reconstruct from scratch.

“I guess neither of us know who you were,” he admitted. “All I know is that I like who you _are_. I believe in you.”

“What if you believe in someone who doesn’t exist?”

“That’s just the point. You _do_ exist. The things you’ve done aren’t imaginary. The choices you’ve made to make things better—those are all real. Nothing can change that, even if it turns out you were different before.”

Six didn’t answer.

“What are you afraid of, Six?”

“I’m afraid I’ll find out I used to be like them.”

“Like who?”

“Like Cachino. Like… Clanden.” His voice was so low Arcade had to lean closer to make out the words. “Men who enjoy hurting women.”

“Why would you think that?”

The idea seemed preposterous. Arcade had never seen Six behave with anything but respect towards women. Even the ones he’d killed—Fiends and Scorpions and the like, mostly—he’d dispatched with a good clean shot; no trace of the disgusting sexual power play that was business as usual for groups like the Legion. He didn’t even cuss them out. He also shared Arcade’s general distaste for the buying and selling of sex. Not directed at the hookers themselves but those who profited from them. Arcade had learned from Cass that when James Garrett, with whom Six was friendly, requested Six’s help in recruiting some new ‘talent’ for the Atomic Wrangler, Six had looked ready to punch his lights out.

“The stuff in my head,” Six said at last. “It’s awful.”

“Can you tell me?”

Six leaned his head into his hands again, covering his eyes. “Black hair,” he said. “I thought she had long, black hair.”

Arcade didn’t need to ask who. He looked at Six’s own dark hair, or what remained of it around the scar tissue that marred his skull above the right temple. Hair that would be black if he stayed out of the desert sun.

“What else?”

“When we found those tapes.” Six’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “The sounds on them. It felt… familiar.”

Arcade nodded even though Six couldn’t see him. “How did it make you feel when you heard it?”

“Terrified. Like my heart was about to burst out my chest. It comes back whenever I think about it.”

“Do you remember hurting someone?”

“No. But I can see… her.” Six spoke very slowly, each word a footstep that took him into darker terrain. “I think—Dead, she must be dead. There’s blood on everything. I can’t see her face. Just her hair. Black hair.”

Arcade wanted to reach out for him, but hesitated. He was better with words than gestures. He stared uselessly at Six, at the tension in his back and shoulders. The shape of the dressing he had applied earlier that night was visible through Six’s thin shirt. To hell with awkwardness. He put a hand on Six’s back, close to his heart. The tightness in Six’s shoulders seemed to ease a little at the touch.

“What happens when you look at her?”

Six exhaled heavily. “I feel angry. So angry, I just want to tear everything up.”

“And that’s what happened in Gomorrah, too, right?”

Six nodded against his hands. “I fucking lost it.”

“You saw that women were being hurt and you wanted to do something about it.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not such a bad thing, Six.”

“So why do I feel so _guilty_.”

“About Clanden?”

“No. I don’t really feel anything about that. Whatever I did to him is kind of a blur.” Six lowered his hands and folded his arms on the counter. “I feel guilty about letting them get hurt.” When he glanced at Arcade his eyes were bloodshot and red around the rims. “Guess that doesn’t make any sense, right? I never met those girls. But I feel like it was my fault.”

“Maybe you felt like you let someone down before,” Arcade said carefully. “The woman with black hair, perhaps.”

“Maybe.” Six nodded vaguely. He took a deep breath and straightened in his seat. Arcade sensed that that was as far as he was willing or able to go. Six was on the brink of something, and it hurt to see him struggle with it, but Arcade wouldn’t push him any further tonight. He had his own suspicions about the identity of the black-haired woman. Whoever she was, her passing had marked Six very deeply. Deeper than Benny’s bullets.

He moved his hand from Six’s back and leaned on the bar. They sat in silence for what felt like a long time. Arcade stared at the untouched glass of whisky in front of him, debating whether or not to drink it.

“Thank you,” Six said. “For listening.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I know I put you through a hell of a lot last night, but you still heard me out. That really means a lot.” He shifted on the stool. “And look, Arcade…about what I said.”

“Yeah?”

“When I—” Six rubbed a hand over his scarred head, struggling for words again. “What I said about you, uh—”

“Looking for a hero?” Arcade suggested.

Six winced. “I was an asshole.”

“You kinda were.”

“I just want you to know that I didn’t mean any of it. I was angry, and all I wanted was to get back to Gomorrah and—” He shook his head sharply. “No, you know what, I won’t make excuses for it. I’m sorry. I’ll never treat you like that again. And I wish I could take it all back and start over.”

Arcade gave in and reached for the glass. He compromised and drank half the whisky, then placed the rest in front of Six. “Yeah, me too.”

“Can we pretend?”

“Pretend what?”

“To start over.”

Arcade looked at him sceptically. “Um…”

Six swallowed the contents of the glass and slammed it down onto the counter. “Wait there,” he said.

Arcade watched in confusion as Six climbed off his stool and walked away from the bar. He headed toward the elevator and disappeared from view. Arcade listened for the sound of elevator doors, but heard nothing. A moment later, Six reappeared on the other side of the room, having presumably done a circuit of the casino floor. He ambled back toward the bar and sat down in the stool he had just vacated. Arcade stared at him, hoping this wasn’t a sign of impending mental collapse.

Six turned to face him and nodded in greeting. “Hi,” he said.

Arcade laughed. “Hi.”

Six extended a hand. “Name’s Six. Well… it is now, anyway.”

Arcade took Six’s hand and shook it. “Arcade Gannon.”

“Good name,” Six replied.

“Thank you. It sounds even better with ‘Doctor’ at the start.”

“Indeed it does.” Six gestured at the shelves behind the bar. “Can I not-buy you a drink, Doctor?”

Arcade laughed again. He could barely keep up. If he could say one thing for Six, it was that he was never, ever boring. “I’m good, really,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m good too.” Six looked down at his hands and then across at his companion.

“So, Arcade.” He smiled almost shyly. “What’s a handsome man like you doing in a deserted casino like this?”


	4. Chapter 4

Another night in the belly of the beast.

Arcade sat alone in the private mezzanine bar that overlooked the Brimstone club, playing with the label on his bottle of water and trying not to worry too much. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air, and his ears were still ringing from the din of a sawed-off shotgun discharging within a small space.

Six was in the office that had, until that shogun blast, belonged to Big Sal. He was talking business with its new occupant, Cachino, who had preferred to speak with Six alone. Judging by the slowly raising voices behind the closed door, that business was going pretty much the way they had anticipated.

He heard the sounds of struggle and had to fight the urge not to charge in there as backup. Six was more than capable of handling Cachino on his own, he reminded himself, plus he needed Arcade on lookout duty in case any vengeful Omertas came for their heads. Funnily enough, no one seemed to be in a rush to protect their new leader, just like they hadn’t come running for Big Sal or Nero earlier. That ‘never betray the family’ line was a joke.

Arcade sat back in his chair. Six had promised to holler when he needed him. But it was uncomfortable, walking this fine line between trusting Six and watching for signs of him going into meltdown again. He had improved a lot since their conversation in the Lucky 38 the day before. He had even agreed—eventually, after some gentle pleading—to go and get help with his resurgent memories from a doctor with more experience of psychological health. They were still arguing over whether Usanagi at the New Vegas Medical Clinic (Arcade’s choice) or Doc Mitchell in Goodsprings (Six’s) would be the person for the job. That would have to wait, though, because the one thing Six wouldn’t budge on was coming back to finish things at Gomorrah. It had barely been two days since the incident with Clanden, and Arcade was afraid Six may still be too raw.

One of the voices suddenly rose sharply in a jumble of threats and curses. Arcade tensed, but the voice wasn’t Six’s. It continued in a furious, fearful stream and then cut off in an ugly shriek. There was a sound like an axe being buried in a branch. Arcade’s foot tapped nervously on the floor.

A minute later the door opened and Six emerged. He tilted his head to beckon Arcade over. There was blood: some of it spattered on Six’s clothes, some dripping from the blade of the machete in his hand.

“We’re ready for you,” he said.

Arcade picked up his doctor’s bag from the floor and went to him.

“Everything okay?” he asked quietly, scanning Six’s face to assess his state of mind.

Six nodded. “All good,” he said. He even managed a grim smile.

They entered the office and Six closed the door.

Cachino was a slumped wreck in Big Sal’s office chair. He would have slid right off it onto the carpet if he weren’t duct taped in place. He was babbling in pain and shock. A leather belt was wound tight around his left arm above the elbow, his lower arm soaked in blood. The hand was missing. Correction—it wasn’t _missing_ ; it just wasn’t attached to Cachino any more. It lay in front of him, palm up and lifeless in the middle of the desk, fingers curled in slightly like the legs on a fat, dead bug. Six approached Cachino and leant down to talk to him.

“You want me to spare your other?”

_“—you crazy motherfucker Jesus Christ my hand you FUCK—”_

Six put the machete under Cachino’s chin and forced him to tilt his head up. “I said, do you want me to spare your other?”

Cachino panted, spittle on his lips, eyes darting wildly around Six’s face. Eventually the question seemed to parse into his brain. “Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, yes! Oh God, _please don’t take my other hand_.”

“If you want to keep it, here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re going to listen to my advice and turn this into a reputable establishment.”

Cachino continued to ogle him.

“And that means, if you have hookers here, they get respect. No more buying girls like slaves. No more drugging. And if _anyone,_ be it clientele or goddamn ‘family’, gets the idea that paying for a girl means they get to knock ‘em around, they’ll be going out the front door with more than their fucking hand removed. And _that. Includes. You._ Hear me?”

Cachino nodded, a tiny motion that was all he dared around the blade at his throat.

“You’re a businessman now, not some old-world crime boss. I don’t give a fuck about your dick-stroking gangster bullshit. And if you start thinking about cooking up some kind of vengeance, just remember: I have a lot of important friends. The sort of friends you do not want as enemies. And all of them will be keeping an eye on this place.” He gestured around the room. “It doesn’t look to me as though you have a whole lot of friends here, Cachino. So you might want to consider trying to be mine.”

Coming from anyone else, that would have been all bravado. With Six it was actually true. Word was spreading far and wide about this nameless courier forging alliances and bringing big changes. Cachino knew it; he’d counted on Six’s sense of justice to persuade him to oust Sal and Nero. He just hadn’t counted on that justice catching up with him, too.

“We clear on all that?”

Cachino nodded again, his eyes closed now, just two slits in a face the colour of wet laundry.

“Good,” Six said. He stepped aside and looked at Arcade. “He’s all yours.”

Arcade hunched down in front of Cachino, grimacing at the sour stench of urine. Cachino had pissed himself. He opened up his doctor’s bag and started to take out what he needed. Cachino’s eyes bulged with terror as he watched Arcade.

“What the fuck is he going to do?” Cachino croaked.

“He’s going to stitch you up,” Six said, over by the door. “So you’d better show him a little fucking gratitude.”

Cachino passed out not long after Arcade went to work on him, which was just as well since it kept him from thrashing around like a dying radroach. Six sat in a chair and watched in silence as Arcade clamped blood vessels and sterilised, stitched and bandaged the grotesque stump of Cachino’s arm. Their patient sluggishly came back to consciousness as Arcade was giving him a dose of Med-X.

“All done,” Arcade told him. “I’ll leave you plenty of clean dressings and some stimpaks, but you’ll need to have a medic check it over every couple of days until it heals.”

Cachino just stared at the clean white bandage, whimpering _my hand, my fucking hand_ as Arcade packed away his supplies.

“Be grateful it _was_ your hand,” Six said. “I wanted to cut off your dick, but my friend here talked me out of it. He didn’t want to dig around in your junk, and I can’t say I blame him.”

More precisely, Six had suggested castration, but Arcade had told him quite firmly that he’d only take Cachino’s balls if he could practice on Six first. Six had gotten a little flustered, unsure whether it was a threat or a come-on.

“Without him you’d either be dickless or dead,” Six said, pointing at Arcade. “I want you to thank him.”

Cachino just blinked at Six as though he was speaking Mandarin. Six stepped closer.

“I want you to say, ‘Thank you, Doctor Gannon’.”

Cachino looked at Arcade and blinked at him instead. “Thank you, Doctor Gannon,” he managed eventually. Arcade wasn’t really sure how to respond, so he just nodded.

“Good,” Six said. He went over to Cachino’s chair and cut through the thick bands of duct tape holding him in place. “I think that concludes our business for today. Anything else you wanted to say?”

Cachino sat cradling his stump in his other hand. “Did she put you up to this?” he asked, his voice hoarse from yelling. “Joana?”

“No,” Six said. “But I bet she would have liked to be here to see this.”

“That fucking bitch,” Cachino muttered. "You think I wouldn’t notice that she’s gone? I know you musta had something to do with it, she would never have run off by herself.” Arcade watched Cachino in disbelief as the words kept on spilling stupidly from his mouth. “Are you fucking her, is that it? Turned her against me?” He started to cry then, not just leaking tears of pain but big juddering sobs. He looked like a very large, ugly baby. “She was _mine_. I fucking loved her.”

Arcade winced. He wished he’d sewn the guy’s mouth shut too.

Six kicked Cachino in the chest so his chair tipped back and he sprawled onto the floor.

“Loved her?” he said, looming over Cachino. “Did you say _loved_ her, you sorry piece of shit?” He put one booted foot on Cachino’s stump and pressed down. Cachino howled in agony. “Now I am only gonna tell you this one more time. No woman ever does, or ever will belong to you. She ain’t a piece of ass, or a piece of meat, or a hole for you to fuck. And if you ever forget that again, I will be back to raze this place to the fucking ground. There won’t be so much as a goddamn poker chip left of Gomorrah. Do you understand?”

Cachino was crying too hard to answer. Six reached for the machete on the desk.

“Six,” Arcade said clearly. Six looked round at him. “Let’s go.”

They regarded each other for a moment, Six’s eyes defiant at first, but then he stepped away from Cachino with a shake of his head. He took the machete anyway, and Cachino’s severed hand.

On their way out of the casino, he threw the hand to the lobby guard and told him to put it in a jar as a warning to all the patrons of Gomorrah. The guard turned a sickly yellowish shade and dropped it on the floor.

-

“That went all right, don’t you think?”

Six sat down opposite Arcade at the kitchen table and slid a bottle of beer across to him.

“I didn’t go particularly well for Cachino,” Arcade replied.

“It went a lot better for Cachino than it could’ve,” Six said. “I had a powerful urge to do him some more harm.”

“Yes, I noticed that. But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t. Thanks to you.” They clinked their bottles together, and shared a long look.

Nothing had happened between them yet. After they had ‘started over’ in the Lucky 38 bar the day before, he and Six had gone back to a kind of holding pattern of friendship and flirtation. They shared the tense anticipation of two people who know they are mutually attracted but can’t act on it just yet because they have more pressing concerns, such as, for example, killing corrupt mob bosses. Or fixing a broken psyche.

“Did anything else come back to you while we were there?” Arcade asked gently.

Six took a long drink. “No,” he said. “Just that same anger. I had more control over it this time, though.” He scratched absently at a mark on the table. “She was still there, too. My mystery woman.”

Arcade watched him. He had the feeling Six’s black-haired woman would never be far from his mind, at least until he could retrieve a fuller memory of her.

“I’m sorry about all of this,” Six began.

Arcade cut him off. “Don’t. Don’t be sorry. You’re doing your best.” He reached across the table and brushed his fingertips against Six’s. The smallest of touches, it felt painfully inadequate, and yet it stood for so much more. “We’ll figure it out, Six.”

Six brushed the pad of his thumb over Arcade’s fingers, deepening the promise.

“Yeah,” he said. “And when we do, we can start over again.”

 

\--- _fin_ \---


End file.
